Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,
I keep telling myself that I'm finally going to send the letters I keep writing. Because I write you all the time, Dad. I feel like I am forever writing you. Forever trapped in a loop of memories that I want to share with you. Forever stuck on repeat.

I keep telling myself that I'll send this one. I'm really going to put that stamp on it and I'm going to go to the post office and mail it. I'm going to finally start the conversation that I've been dying to start for years now. I say those things and then I never finish the letters and they never get sent. I chicken out every time. I did send one letter. I sent it to Auntie, because she wouldn't give me your address and it got lost in the mail.

Five pages worth of memories and the desire to have you back in my life, lost in the mail.

I can't recreate that letter. I can't recreate all the years you've missed out on. I'm not that good of a writer.

I suppose I should start off simply. Tell you that I love you. I miss you. I don't care that all the time and all the drugs have separated us. I just want to have you back in my life. I just want to start over.

I want to start a dialogue with you. Not a monologue of monotonous details spread out like a map of childhood to adulthood. But I have no idea where to start.

Do I start from the last time I saw you, in flesh, 19 years ago? Do I start from 13, when I sent the last letter I would send; the one that said I hated you and that it was your fault that Memere died and that I never wanted to hear from you again? Where do I start, Dad? Do I start with an apology?

I am 25. I'll be 26 this year, which seems, both, difficult and easy to believe. I feel like I've been 30 my whole life, so 26 shouldn't be so bad.

I don't remember what you sound like. I don't remember your smell. I don't remember the small details about you. Though, when I look at the pictures, I recognize myself in you. We have the same pointed chin, the same toothy grin, and, though I never see your feet, the same flat feet. I feel like I look more like you than Mom, most of the time. Though, admittedly, there are times that I look just like Mom when she was younger.

My hair is still curly. Though, it has lost some of the wildness over the years. I'm not sure if that is age or other factors. My eyes are still brown. Sometimes black, sometimes caramel colored. I am incredibly short. Okay, maybe not incredibly. I am about 5 foot, 3 inches tall. I think Mom and I are the same height.

I write all the time. Not just letters to you, but stories and poems and blogs. I finished writing my first novel in January. I'm in editing right now. But I keep second-guessing myself on it.

I vote Democrat. Obama is my second favorite President (the first being John Quincy Adams). I am a feminist (much to Mom's and Chris' chagrin). I like to consider myself a Humanist, really. I'm far too opinionated for my own good (again, to Mom's chagrin). I don't believe in the Death penalty, the Three Strikes law, Circumcision or Spanking your kids. I'm an atheist; though I was a Muslim for a short time. And a Christian, against my will, growing up. I like women, as well as men

I hate my job. I hate feeling like I've failed myself in staying where I am unhappy for so long. But I am poor. What else is there to do?

I love travelling. And I run away from home as often as possible. Though I always come back. I am in love with the Ocean.

I've never tried Pot. But I drink. I don't drink as often as I'd like, because I can't justify spending money on it. I've never had my ears pierced. I don't have any tattoos.

I wish on stars, even though my wishes never come true. I love thunderstorms and old movies. I have more books than I could possibly read because I find their presence comforting.

I got married in a red dress and barefoot because I look best in red and I hate shoes. I was married on the first of September, 2011, in a court room by the Judge. I've been married almost three years.

I am missing a portion of my pelvis (on the left side) and I have a rod in my leg (on the right side) because of a car accident that happened October 19th, 2009. I am not crippled. I can walk and run and jump. I just ache some days more than others. And the rain, though it makes me sleep better, seems to seep into what bones I have in my pelvis.

Some days I hate you. I hate that you have missed out on so much of my life. I hate that you took drugs. I hate that you never wrote me again. I hate that I feel like you abandoned me.

Some days I hate myself. I hate that I told you never to write me again. I hate that I never sent the letters I wanted to after that. I hate that I didn't run back to the mailbox and rip that letter to shreds. I'm sorry.

I'm sorry for all the cruel and vicious words a hurting 13 year-old wrote you in a moment of weakness. I'm sorry that I let all my hatred and feelings of betrayal and abandonment take over. I'm sorry that I never wrote you again. I'm sorry I've not sent any letters since then.

Take this for what you will, Dad. I don't want to spend the rest of my life wondering if we could've had a real relationship. I don't want to wake up one morning to find a note from Auntie saying that you have died in prison. I don't want to wonder if I could've fixed this.

I never stopped loving you.
Sarai.

Welcome to Womanhood

Dear Gentleman in the Body- Wash/ Feminine Hygiene products aisle,
You got flustered while I was looking at the pads and trying to decide which ones I'd prefer to get. You made your anxiety quite plain when you practically whined at your daughter about "Can we get out of this aisle now?" I'm sorry that the proof of my womanhood makes you so uncomfortable. It makes me super uncomfortable because I can tell you it is no picnic.

Its nauseating to pass blood clots. The cramps, back ache and migraines are exhausting. The mood swings, the pain, the blood, its all fucking miserable. You know what does NOT help?

Your attitude towards it.

Yes, its gross. It would be awesome if I could just get a little note from Mother Nature saying "Congrats! We're not pregnant, see you next month!" But that isn't how it works. Unfortunately the proof of my not having conceived is currently ruining my underwear.

You know what would be helpful? A small smile of sympathy. Or, just acting nonchalant. Your agitation did nothing to soothe me. Quite the opposite in fact. I laughed it off to my mom and one of my friends, but your attitude of agitation and mild disgust makes ME feel disgusting. As if I didn't feel disgusting enough as is. Think about what you are portraying for your daughter, who was picking out body-wash. You are showing her that she should be ashamed of what she has absolutely NO control over.

You're implying that you wouldn't stoop to buy such things for her by making it seem like a shameful thing to buy. Why do we shame people for things that are not in their control? Sex drive, sex life, sexual health, etc.

I can't change how the human body works. I can't change how MY body works. But YOU can change your attitude towards it.

Sincerely,
The girl on her period trying to decide which product would work best.  

Dear Younger Self,

Dear Younger Self,
Tonight I realized something about us, staring at the loaves of "Sunbeam" bread with "Not by bread alone" on the packaging and the little girl's head bowed in prayer.

Donnie said something then, when I refused to buy that bread and picked up a different brand, that made sense. He said that, in a way, the way we grew up was good for me. In that, it caused me to look at things, question things, develop my own opinions, question why I have those opinions.

It was awful, what we went through. I wouldn't change a moment of it though. Everything we have been through, everything we've done was for a reason.

I have to believe it was for a reason.

The majority of the time, you will like who you are. Even though there is still the underlying self-loathing. Even though you still question your every decision. Even though you wish you could just fix everything and make it perfect.

The trials, the tribulations, etc. I promise they will be worth it. At the very least, I believe they will be worth it.

love,
Me.

The existence of Children.

Dear ____,
I want to snuggle you. I want to tell you I love you. I even, I hesitate to say, want to have children with you. You are such a beautiful person, inside and out. You are sweet and kind and sometimes you are just what I need.

I can't shake the image of a little girl, our little girl, cuddled up with you reading a story. I think you would be a wonderful father. And I hope, one day, that you find the woman to make you a father. I wish it could be me.

I love you. I love you so much, but I love ______ too. And I can't just stop that. I can't just give up on him. And I know this isn't going to be the beginnings of a polyamorous relationship, because I'm pretty sure I'm the only one here who would be cool with that.

I love too much. I think too much. I wish too much.

I just can't stop seeing a little girl with curly hair and a bow, curled up in your lap while you read to her. And I can't stop the butterflies I get when I think of that image. The longing I have to make that a reality and not just my imagination.

You said sexy was in the eye of the beholder and that I had every potential to be a mother. How would you react if I told you that I want to be a mother? That I want to be the mother of your daughter? I want to believe that you would want the same thing. I want to believe that you would find me attractive... dare I say, sexy?

In the meantime, I daydream and feel guilty and worried. I don't want to harm our friendship. And I don't want to lose ______ either.

Maybe in the next life, I'll find you sooner.

A God Complex

Dear God,
My mother wonders why you and I aren't on speaking terms. She wonders why I no longer believe in you. It's obvious to everyone that I wanted to. I've tried to.

The reason, God, is that I can't trust you. It all comes down to that, really. I can't trust you to be the "loving" and "benevolent" God people claim you are. I can't trust the God of the Bible. I can't trust in you at all.

You don't wonder why, because you are omnipotent, or so they say. But in case there is any confusion, I'll spell it out for you.

When I was a little girl I was molested by a friend. A girl friend. And I realized that I liked girls. I was intrigued by the idea of a vagina and breasts. I wanted to touch and caress and prod these things. I wanted to learn more about them. I wanted to be sexual with these body parts, even though I had no idea what that meant, because I was far too young to know what sex was.

I wasn't completely naive. I realized, quite quickly that being with girls, while being a girl, was very wrong and that I shouldn't be having those feelings. So I prayed that you would make me a man. I asked you to make me a man, because then I could be with a woman and you wouldn't hate me. I could speak in Church, be a pastor, do anything I wanted to; if I were a man. I developed the worst kind of penis envy.

As I got a little older, I realized that becoming a man would actually make you hate me as well, because I would be changing the person you had made. The person you created would be altered and, in reality, I would still be a woman sleeping with a woman. And then there was the pesky problem of my attraction to men as well.

If you created me, then am I not perfect as I am?

The other reason I can't trust you, God, is because of ___. You allowed him into our lives. You allowed him to abuse us. You allowed him to break us. You allowed that. You didn't have to. You didn't have to stand by and just watch. You could've saved us, because you are all powerful, are you not?

Instead, we were beaten, starved, abused, etc. for fifteen years. FIFTEEN YEARS, God. Are you listening? FIFTEEN. Not two or three. FIFTEEN. My mother believed you wanted us to be there. That you brought him to us. That you are good and know everything. You had a reason, a purpose.

What kind of purpose did you have?

What possible purpose could you have, allowing a tyrant to belittle, berate, beat and abuse two small children? What reason is there for that?

What greater purpose was served while my brother screamed for mercy? While he cried out to YOU? What greater purpose was served there, God?

You allowed men into our lives. Men who claimed to be of you. You allowed them to play puppeteer with the tyrant you had already given us. You allowed cruelties that still give me nightmares.

___ used to say that you were a gentleman. That you allowed everything to happen because it had to happen to make us who we are. He would say that while he made excuses for his abuses. He was abused, so he didn't know any better. His sexuality was damaged by his parents, so it was okay to damage mine and my brother's. He was damaged, so that gave him the right to continue the damage. He made excuses for everything, even for you.

Yes, I'm angry. I'm an atheist because I am angry. Because I have lost all the belief I ever had in you.

Can you blame me?

Mon frère

Mon frère,
I am sorry. I am sorry that I didn't protect you from ___. I'm sorry I wasn't able to protect you from _______ or ___. I am sorry that I let my own fears prevent me from being strong when you needed strength the most. I am sorry I didn't rescue you and that because of my weakness you were so damaged by someone who should've protected us.

I'm sorry. I'm sorry that saying it over and over isn't enough and that it won't undo all the damage that has been done.

I feel so guilty. I hear you screaming in my nightmares. I hear you crying out to God for mercy, even though I cover my ears and I run as far as I can. I can still hear it. I hear it all the time. How could anyone not understand your lack of faith in a God so cruel that he allowed such abuses to continue? That men who claimed to be from him would prescribe such cruelty?

I see your poor little burnt fingers. I see your tears and your anguish, staring at a plate of vegetables from last week. I hear your stomach growling because you've not eaten in two days. You eye the cabinets and the refrigerator, all padlocked to prevent you from eating until you've eaten those withered vegetables. How could anyone not understand your revulsion? How could anyone question?

Even when I stuck up for you, even when I tried to protect you, I failed. I failed miserably. He still tortured you. He still hurt you and I still hear you screaming when I close my eyes.

How could we believe in a God that would allow such horrors? How could we trust ever again, when the person we had trusted the most abused us?

I am sorry that ___ believed he had to be the dominant one, the alpha male. I'm sorry that I was incapable of protecting you, when I should've fought with tooth and nail. I remember being so scared for you and so scared that I, too, would be punished so severely. That I would be starved. Weren't we all starved anyway? Starved of love as well as food. I was too scared. I was a coward.

I'm still a coward. I can't stand up to him. Even now I can't protect any of us from him. I'm so sorry, mon frère. I'm sorry that saying "I'm sorry" is never going to be enough to undo the damage, to stop the hurt and the nightmares. I'm sorry that I've never been strong enough to protect you.

A Liar, by any other name.

Dear ___,
Its fitting that you changed your name to Jacob.

Especially since it means "liar." You've spent your whole life telling lies, being hypocritical, two faced, etc. Its fitting that Jacob lied and stole from his own family. You lied about your love. You stole my youth, stole my everything.

You had Leah, a perfectly good wife, and you still kept lusting after a Rachel. Oh you were faithful, faithful in that you didn't have sex with another woman. But you were never faithful in your heart.

You believed you would be the father of nations, a king to rule. And then my mother turned out to be a Rachel in a baby sense. Unable to carry five children to term. And you stood in that pulpit, crying, mourning as if you were the only one affected by the loss. You act as if you are the only one who has ever been abused or hurt.

You talk about how your mother and father harmed your psyche (a word I'm sure you don't know how to spell or even pronounce), your "manhood," your sexuality.

What about my womanhood? My sexuality? Or _____'s manhood and sexuality? What about ______? Did it ever occur to you that you have damaged us in more ways than your parents ever damaged you?

You make excuses, hide behind your terrible childhood, adolescence.
"I was abused." You abused us.
"I was damaged." You damaged us.

Why don't you be a fucking man and own up to your mistakes? Why don't you stop whining and boo hooing?

"Oh, poor Jacob." Oh, poor you! Stop hiding behind your pathetic excuses and be a real man.

If I were a man, I would fight you. I would say all of these things to your face, because you are a coward. You will bow out. A man so deep in the closet because he hates what he doesn't understand. I wish I could make you see.

I wish I could shove your nose in all the shit you forced on us. All the pain, the heartache, the heartbreak. I wish I could force you to look at yourself and see.

Wishes are useless, however.

In the end I am left marveling at the irony of your choice in name. "Jacob hath I loved," said God. So you imagine yourself beloved by heaven. Jacob is a liar and a thief. How fitting that a "jealous" and "angry" God would love a liar like you.

Impossible

Dear ___,
You have made it terribly difficult to trust. You have made it impossible to not question, not fear, not loathe. You brought this side of me to life.

Did you hate me the entire time? Or is it just now? I can't believe anything you say. You are a liar. A pathological pervert.

Did you touch me? Did you do something to me? Those nights, when I woke up and discovered that my night-shirt had been unbuttoned and pushed to the sides, was that you?

What is this hatred that you have kindled inside of me? What am I?

I am so sick of myself. So sick of men. So sick of YOU. I can think of innumerable things I'd rather do than see you again. I can imagine numerous horrors I'd rather face than you. And you have always had the audacity to try and force your way back into my heart.

You are a worm. Lower than a worm. You disgust me. You frighten me. You make me sick. You force me to look back on our lives and see the torture marks. The scars you have left still bleed periodically. Even if you pretend they don't exist. Its almost funny, you denying all the pain you caused. Its almost humorous. Almost.

I think of our days together. I think of those times. You are a poison and I'm pushing my veins full of anti-venom. I'm trying to flush you out of my system and I can't do it. I can't rid my heart of your taproot. It is stupid that you can still make me feel like this still.

You made flying an impossibility. You dragged me out of the sky and staked me to the ground. You banished me to the darkness, left me to wither without the sun. You made love a risk. You made living a hazard. You sank all the dreams, tied me down with weights so that I would drown.

You clipped my wings so that I'd have no desire to leave the earth. Does it bother you that they have grown back?

Dear Mom,

Dear Mom,
Over the years, I have thought of many things I would like to say to you. Some of them kind and full of love, some of hurt and some of anger. There are so many things that I don't even know where to begin. I suppose I'll start somewhere and go from there.

It hurt my feelings when you told me that I needed to give up my "whimsical attraction to other women." It isn't whimsy, Mom. I am genuinely attracted to other women in a sexual manner. I can't change who I am, and I'm not sure I would want to. I suppose in my mind I thought it would be easy for you to accept me. Uncle Dick, Aunt Janice, Aunt Becky and Uncle Kevin are all homosexual. The statistic in our family is 1 in 3 is homosexual. Somehow I thought that would make you more accepting of my own sexual proclivities. I suppose I shouldn't have assumed that just because we have that statistic that you would be accepting. After all, your grandmothers never came to terms with it either.

It hurts that you are gone so much lately. I feel like I never really get to see you or talk to you. And I feel like when we do hang out you are mad at me. I feel sometimes like you just use me to take care of Chris when you aren't there and that is both annoying and angering.

I'm mad that you stayed married to W. as long as you did. I suppose it's time to admit that. I know you kept clinging to the belief that God gave him to you and I know you keep saying I need to stop being mad at God for it. But if God gave W. to us and God is omnipotent, then God is cruel. He knew what W. was going to do long before he did it. He knew that he was going to starve Chris and beat us. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of you. He knew that W. was going to take advantage of me. He knew W. was going to try to turn Hannah against us. And that he would mostly succeed. But you stayed. And I know you loved him, I know you thought it was somehow God's plan.

I'm not angry that you couldn't defend us anymore. It wouldn't have mattered. W. was going to do what he would, regardless of your intervention. He would have just shamed us into not telling you anyway.

There were good times, though Mom. I do remember some of the good points. Like learning to play chess and trips to the Children's Museum. Learning about Sacajawea and Corrie Ten Boom and heroes of the Bible. There were fishing trips and moments where I felt really close to you. I feel closer to you now than I did then.

I was afraid to be close to you. I was afraid you would die, especially after your massive miscarriage. I was afraid that if I cared more than I already did you would die and I'd be all alone. Sometimes I still feel that way. I'm afraid to love you because I know it will hurt more than anything when you are gone. And we all go at some point or another. I couldn't stand to see you deteriorate the way Grandma Bobbi did. I just couldn't.

I still feel lingering guilt from some of the thoughts I had when I was younger. Thoughts that if you, Chris and Hannah all died that you would all be better off because things were so terrible for a while there. I felt like a terrible daughter and sister because I wanted you to be gone so that you wouldn't suffer. But at the same time I couldn't imagine losing you. And I was afraid to lose you. I'm still afraid to lose you.

You're my best friend, Mom. In spite of hurt feelings and anger and fear. In spite of all that, I can't imagine what it would be like to not have you. And I can't imagine not talking to you on the phone for silly reasons or going to O'Charley's all the time. Or sharing some of my random music with you.

I suppose all of this has just been supposition to say, I love you Mom. More than any other human being on this earth. More than I could ever fully express. And even though you have hurt my feelings and pissed me off, I wouldn't be the person I am today without you. And, most of the time, I'm pretty happy with the person I am. Bisexuality, hatred for God and religion, lack of forgiveness for W., currently divergent political views and all.

love,
Sarai

Dear God,

Dear God (specifically the God of the Christians),
As my darling girlfriend has said, you are one of the most genuinely unpleasant characters in all of written fiction. You're followers are some of the most hypocritical and some of the most foul individuals I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. Not to mention the ones who are just plain batshit insane.

People murder in your name, you know. They use you as a convenient excuse for all their petty bullshit. They hide their actions behind your book. It's a funny thing really, because more than half of them have never read the thing all the way through.

I used to believe in you, you know. I wanted to be a minister. I used to take my bible out and I would preach to the trees. However, a woman shall not have dominion over man. I still have more of your word memorized than I would like (i.e. Matthew 4:4). At least it comes in handy when I'm pointing out the hypocrisy of your followers.

I used to be afraid of going to Hell. And I felt such massive guilt for my attraction to women and my burgeoning sexual affinities. Yes, Lord, I have sinned and fallen far short of the glory of you. That used to bother me. Though, to be brutally honest, I tried to be bothered by it more than I actually was. I haven't been "on fire" for you in a long time.

Mom says I need to forgive you and start talking to you again. She says you are good. I don't believe it. I don't believe in you at all any more.

Previously to this moment I used to believe that you existed in some fashion or other. Recent events however have made think otherwise. Though there are still good things that happen, making me wonder if you are behind it trying to lure me back. Like Obama winning the election. That made me wonder if you weren't real after all. Because I cried out louder than I ever have that he would win. To anything out there. Of course, if that is true, mayhaps it was Krishna or Ra answering my prayers.

Mom says I need to talk to you. She encouraged my desire to be Muslim because she believes you and Allah are the same being. Which I also agree with, for the most part. She tells me that I need to pour my heart out to you. I tell her that I don't believe in you. She refuses to believe in my disbelief. I suppose she has a right to that.

I have never felt more like an atheist than I do now. And I'm not sure if that is a good or bad thing. But I am dried up. I have felt this before. I know believing in you won't make a difference. It is just the way of things. I hate you, but I want to believe in you. Why is that?

Why do I care?

Because the little girl I was survived Hell and wants to believe it was for a reason. I want to believe I have come this far for a purpose and not because you enjoyed toying with me or because you didn't exist at all. I want to believe it was all for a better world. When in reality, I think it was because the world is sick. And I wish I could be like the girl in my favorite series and destroy the swollen and rotting portions of this world, save it from itself. I can't. I can't save the world. And you have left me with this gaping hole where my heart should be.

I tried to give it to you. It wasn't good enough. I wasn't good enough. I tried to be perfect. I couldn't shake the desire to be a man. The longing to be with a woman sexually. I couldn't deny those feelings and I couldn't deny the love I had for things that were not of "you." Maybe I have been led astray. Maybe I have been wrong. But I tried. I tried, God. I tried to be a good and faithful servant. And I give up. I'm tired of fighting who I am because I am scared of some being that may or may not exist.

If you can't love me for who I am, for who YOU created me to be, how will I ever survive?

Dear W__,

Dear W__,
I watched an old video today with you in it. You were so different in that video. You were so nice and wonderful. Everything I could've hoped you would be. It was painful. One of the hardest things to watch I've ever seen. And I've seen a lot of terrible things.

Having watched this old home movie, I would rather tell myself that you never cared about me and Chris than remember that you did and don't now. That was what hurt.

I couldn't believe you had ever been wonderful, but all the memories I've suppressed to protect my heart came rushing back. The good times we had over that fifteen years. A year or two worth of beautiful memories flooded my brain. I had to walk H_____ to the door to remind myself that you are, in fact, an asshole. That you aren't the person I remember. My memory must be faulty.

These are the things I say to myself to protect me from the pain that you have caused.

"You never really cared" is so much easier to handle than "You cared once and now you don't."

sincerely,
Sarai

Dear Appa,

My dearest Appa,
Thank you. Thank you for making me cry this morning. Thank you for saying what I've been needing to hear for years. It was something I will always cherish.

Thank you for saying I was beautiful. Thank you for calling me your daughter, even though there is no blood between us. Thank you for loving me, even though you don't have to. Thank you for taking care of me and my siblings. Thank you for making me feel a little like I have a family again. I hadn't realized just how much I missed that until now.

Thank you for supporting me, even when I know you don't like what I'm doing. Thank you for not trying to stop me, but being there for me when I'm going through it.

Thank you for taking care of my Mom. Thank you for loving her and treating her the way she deserves to be treated, with love and respect.

Thank you for everything you have done. I'm sorry that I am not the best daughter that I could be, but I'm trying. Forgive me for being cautious around you, for not quite bringing myself to call you "Dad" yet. You are more of a father than I've had in a long time and I appreciate that more than I could ever tell you.

I love you so much, Appa. I may not say it often. I may not express it well, but it is there. I may not call you "Dad" quite the way you would want me to, but I'm scared. I'm afraid that you may stop loving me, may suddenly realize that I'm not worth it, that I'm not perfect and that I screw things up. I'm afraid that you will suddenly see me the way everyone else does, as nothing special. Just another body in a sea of bodies. That terrifies me, Appa.

When you said "talking to the most beautiful 24 year-old daughter I have" I melted into a puddle of tears. Happy tears, because I realized I've been waiting for those words. I waited for D_____ to say it. I waited for W__ to say it. You said it and it was like a little piece of something fell back into place, something I hadn't realized I was missing.

I appreciate that so much more than I could ever explain.

I love you, Appa. Thank you.

With love,
Sarai

To Someone I once loved...

Dear __________,
     There are no words venomous enough to use against you at this point in time. I only wish there were so that I might convey my deepest contempt for you and your self-righteousness. At one point I loved you, but it was so long ago now that I can't even remember what it feels like to love you. There are absolutely no mature or adult words to tell you how Done I am with you and everything having to do with you except my sister. She is the only thing left of you that I care about.
     First of all I would like to thank you for the moments where you were actually a good father. I will always be grateful for your stepping in when Derwin stepped out. But as I mentioned above, I am done with you. I am divorcing you and your memory. Derwin is a better father than you are right now and I haven't even heard from him in 7 years! I am fed up with the way you treat my mother, the way you treat my brother and the way you seem to believe you are always right. Which you aren't, by the way.
     You are one of the most stupid, hypocritical, vindictive and petty men I have ever had the misfortune of meeting. I can't believe that I used to respect you, that I used to look up to you for wisdom! I can't believe that I ever actually cared about what you thought. Those days are over now, because you destroyed any respect, love or other emotions I had for you besides pity and contempt.
     It is my sincerest wish that the Loving and Just God you claim to serve does the just thing with you and allows you to burn in Hell for all eternity. Though, even that seems to pleasant for you.
     You are the most disgusting excuse for a human being that I have EVER encountered. I hope everything you try to do in the name of God turns foul and that everyone turns against you.
     Godly, upright men do not do the things you are currently doing. They do not manipulate people, abuse their wives, leave their children in danger or follow God when it suits their purpose. You cannot use the Bible for your own selfish reasons. Godly men don't twist the Bible's words to make it fit so that they are not in sin. Your treatment of my mother is the most shameful thing I've ever seen. Your disregard of the safety and well-being of my sister is repulsive and the height of stupidity. Your actions toward myself are disturbing and even now make me feel sick to my stomach.
     You are a selfish, lying, contemptible bastard and I hate you. I'm done being nice and keeping my mouth shut. You are a Prick. I would absolutely love to tear your intestines out of your body through your dick and make you eat them. And, as aforementioned, I hope you rot in Hell for all time.

Sincerely,
Sarai Lillie

Memere

Oh Memere,
I'm such a failure. I can't seem to do anything right. I feel like you wouldn't like me at all. Or maybe you would think I was wonderful. I don't know. I just know that I only miss you when I'm breathing. I think about you all the time. I should have moved on by now, right? You've been gone for so long I can't remember what you sound like. All I have left are videos and pictures. Videos that I can't watch because I don't have a VCR.

I feel like I've done absolutely nothing that I should've by now. I just wish you were here. I wish Pepere was here. I wish I knew where Dad was. I wish, I wish, I wish.

I am so selfish, Memere. Because I think you should've lived. You should've been there for my wedding, you should've been there when I got my GED. You should've been there when I was in my car wreck. You should be here now. It's unfair.

I think the worst thing is that I don't remember that much about you. All that I "remember" is from videos, a few phone calls and a letter you wrote Mom. I don't remember what you smelled like, or your voice. I feel as though I have no independent memories. And I don't know if that is because I never had independent memories of you or because of my car accident. So much has been lost over the years. So many memories that we'll never have together.

Auntie says you and Pepere are only a heartbeat away. How is it that you are so close and yet so very far away?

I used to talk to you, after you died. Not literally, but just talking to the air and pretending you were there. I wish you were, so I could tell you about all the things I've learned or about my wedding. Tell you about my job and our new apartment. Plan a trip to see you for Christmas. I wish we could do all those things. And we can't.

Would you have asked me what you asked mom? "Do you feel so very young, dear?" I would say no, because this constant missing you has aged me. I've aged a million years in the time you've been gone. You've been gone far too long.

Would you love me now, Memere? Would you be proud of what I've accomplished? I'm afraid you wouldn't. And in the meantime I'm still missing you like my entire world has ended.

Dear W,

Dear W,
I dreamt about you last night, as I sometimes do. Except, instead of the rage I normally feel upon waking, I just felt tired and sad. I'm ready to move on from you, I think. I am ready to let you slip right out of my existence, but you can't. You simply won't fade quietly into a good night. I have come to believe that you exist solely to torment my mother and, through her, to torment me.

I dreamt that Chris and I were looking for something, throwing clothing and other such things all over a bedroom of sorts. It was only when I looked up I realized it was the bedroom I had in the little blue trailer and where the bed should've been for the futon bunk-bed there were only bars. I glanced up at you through those bars, of course you came in without knocking, like you always did.

I didn't yell at you to knock, but simply said you needed to knock before entering someone's room. You walked back over to the door and re-entered, again without knocking. You never told me what you wanted, just stood there, staring. I said something, though I don't know what it was, and you said I didn't know you, I had never known you. You were voicing the words I often think inside my own head.

"Oh, I know you." I said. "I even know what you enjoyed in bed."

You scowled at that and threatened Mom. I lied and said I had walked in on you many a time. Not entirely untrue, but mostly a lie. The truth is that I've always known what you preferred, it was obvious. You enjoyed being in control of all of us, that should logically extend into your bedroom dealings with my mother.

I asked  you what my favorite movie was and you said, "Home." Obviously that wasn't right, and in the waking world I don't think there even is such a movie.

Your favorite movie is "Remember the Titans" and you're least favorite book in the Bible is "Judges" because it is so gory and violent. Which is why it was one of my favorite books, besides "Job" because God is so sarcastic. You never really knew me. I wonder if you ever even cared to try.

Because you were too busy exerting your dominance over us, too busy abusing us and starving us, you missed the beauty that was us. We could've been a beautiful family.

You make me so sick, sick of men, sick of life, sick of everything. I can't talk to God, because I hate that he let you be a part of our lives. I can't go to church because it reminds me of all your lies and hypocrisies and hatred.

I was trapped inside those bars in my dream. I let you trap me there, but I told you to get the fuck out. No malice any longer, just a weary GTFO. I wish you would, truly.

sincerely,
Sarai

Dear ________,

Dear ________,
I hate you. My soul and heart are filled to the brim with venom and bile that YOU created. You are a monster, a pathetic waste of flesh in this universe.

I can't believe I loved you once. I can't believe I looked up to you. I LOVED You! To think that I could love a creep like you. Well, I guess it is possible, I mean I did date a child molester. But you are the worse because at least he admitted to what he was accused of. You are the worst of reprobates, the king of filth, a true servant of your "God", Satan. For no "Christian" would love and worship Lucifer as tenderly as you have. Did you let him fuck you too? Or are you saving yourself for when you go to Hell?

You are a hypocrite, a liar, a rapist, an abuser, a self-righteous asshole and worse. They don't get lower than you.

You purposefully put your child in danger, abuse your step-children, rape your wife and then go to church and profess the love of God. You make me sick. I want to throw up whenever you are near. Your false kindness is enough to make even Satan gag. Your lies and deeds are what they use to teach new demons in Hell. You are a shining example of all the worst in Christianity. I hate how I can't even stand to hear your name spoken.

If _____ is right, and God sent you to us, then God is a cruel bastard. Because no one, NO ONE, deserves to be put through your Hell. Not even the worst murderer on Death Row deserves you.

I hate how you've turned ________ against us and turned her into a brainwashed brat. You are SO disgusting to turn a child against a mother who did everything in her power to take care of her.

I can't understand why she ever let you into our lives. You make me feel worthless and stupid, guilty for being a woman and DISGUSTED with my own belief system because YOU taught it to me!

You should listen to a song called "I Get It" by Chevelle. It reminds me of you and _____. You think you are so good, so Godly, but ______ is Godlier than you. Dahmer at his WORST was Godlier than you and he was raping, murdering and eating boys! I shouldn't be surprised though. How is sex with _____? I hope you choke while you are swallowing his sperm. I hope you are infected with a million incurable diseases and die a horrific death.

You know, I've had offers to have you killed? People beg with me to let them make you disappear. And, if it wouldn't hurt ______ (because she still loves you, though not even God knows why) and _______, I would let them. I would gleefully watch your pathetic life extinguished. Oh, I'm sorry, am I using too many big words?

Fuck you, fuck what you stand for and all your bullshit.

I hope your colon gets punctured while _______ fucks you and you die from internal bleeding.

Sarai

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,
Is it wrong that I feel the way that I do? Is it so wrong that I still feel this way, after years. I've tried to wipe it out with hate and anguish. The anguish remains, but I'm too tired to hate anymore. I'm just sadly angry and angrily sad. Is it fair to feel this way? Should I try to squash it?

Do you know what I want most for Christmas, Santa? I want a family again. I want my grandfather, Memere, Pepere, grandma Bobbi, my dad, I even want Wes and his family back. Just to feel like we were a family again. Just to feel the illusion of love, even for a few moments. Is that wrong? Is it wrong to want even the illusion of it again?

But if Wes wanted to be a father, he should've tried harder. If he wanted to be a part of my life he should've tried. I shouldn't have to go to him to make things work. He should've acted like an adult.

I am my mother's daughter first. I am his daughter second.
I am my brother's sister first. I am his daughter second.
If he couldn't love my mother any longer, couldn't tolerate my brother any longer than he no longer loved or tolerated me. They are a part of me and I am a part of them. I really did love him at one point.

If Carolyn wanted to be my grandmother she should've tried to love my mother, love my brother. She should've tried harder, but I suppose she didn't know how. But that isn't my fault.

I am my mother's daughter first. I am her granddaughter second.
I am my brother's sister first. I am her granddaughter second.
If she can't accept and love them, then she can't accept and love me. And the saddest thing is that I really did love her. Looked up to her. But I can't tolerate her talking shit about my mother. I won't stand for anyone to talk shit about my mother or my brother or my sister.

Mom, Chris and Hannah are almost all I have really. I have several other relatives, but none that I see on a regular basis. And my mother's husband, Mark, is a nice enough man, but he isn't my father. He never will be. He will always be a nice man that my mother is married to. And I'm okay with that. I'm okay with him just being a friend.

I want acceptance for Christmas. I want to believe that Wes actually cared once. Or maybe I don't, because then I'll just blame myself for him not caring any longer.

I'd like to not be so pathetic that I can't sleep because I'm thinking about everything that is wrong. I'd like to not be so hung up on missing people that don't care about me. People who don't even think about me, even though I can't stop thinking about them.

I really just want peace on earth, I guess.

But you aren't any more real than the unicorns and mermaids I claim to believe in. You can't solve my problems anymore than I can. And if there is a God, he has long since stopped listening to me. I suppose this is where I should end this then. What's the point, Santa?

If I say I've been a really good girl this year, will that make any difference?

If I say that I've really tried this year, will that make any difference?

I hate you. I truly do. I hate you for not being real. I hate you for being a childhood principality that can't exist in this world. I hate that this is how everything has worked out.

I am too tired to hate you. I'm too tired to hate anyone, anymore.

Sarai.

Dear Dad,

Dear Dad,

I don't know what to say to you. I don't know where to begin or to end. Where do I even start? The beginning or the end?

Auntie says that I should forget you. That I am better off without you in my life. She says that you have done many horrible things, many awful things. She says I am better off without you. Maybe she is right.

My friends say that I should forget you. That I am better off without you in my life. That you are a druggie, a criminal. You are never going to change and what closure am I going to gain? What answer will I receive? Will reaching you give me any sense of peace? Will finding you give me any sense of closure? Or will it just bring me down further?

Am I using closure as a crutch, Dad? Do I need it to live? To move on?

Why do I even care anymore? Why do I bother? If you wanted to contact me you would, wouldn't you? You know where Auntie is, you could write her and ask her for my information. You could try. Does it mean that you don't care since you never ask about me? Or do you ask about me and she doesn't mention it because she is tired of me putting myself through all this?

Its my fault that you don't write anymore. That you haven't written in ten years. Nobody really knows that but me, so it is understandable that they can't comprehend why I try so hard to find you. And I need your forgiveness, Dad. I can live without the closure. I can live with you not caring about me anymore. But I need you to forgive me.

Forgive that thirteen year old girl who was trying desperately to recover from the loss of her grandmother. Forgive her for being hateful. Pardon her for hating you, at the time. She blamed you for Memere's death. But she was also hurting from promises that were broken as they were made. Forgive her for sending that hateful letter, so many years ago, saying she never wanted to talk to you again, because it was all your fault. Forgive her for falling prey to those horrible feelings building up in her chest.

Forgive me, Dad.

If I don't try to get your forgiveness, if I don't try to say I'm sorry, if I fail, I will never forgive myself. I can't live with myself, knowing that its my fault and that I didn't tell you I was sorry. Because I am sorry, Dad. I'm so sorry.

I miss you. I love you. I hate you. I wish you would give me some sign of something! Anything, really. I just want to know that sometimes you wonder about me. I just want to know that you can forgive my stupidity, that you still love me. Or feel some kind of emotion towards me.

And is that wrong? Is it wrong that I want this from you? I might receive some kind of closure, knowing I made the attempt. I tried. I worked hard, trying to fix it. Knowing it may never be fixed.

I've tried to cut you out of me. I've tried to drink you away. I've tried to lose you somewhere in my memories, far from me. I've tried everything I can think of to relieve this horrific guilt I feel for everything. I've been self-destructive and tried to rebuild. I've done things I'm not proud of, things I long to go back to, but I can't let myself. But in the end, you are a part of me.

You are in my smile, in my laugh. You are in my bloodstream, you are a part of me that I can never get rid of. No matter how hard I try. You are wired into me, just like our shared DNA. We are intrinsically entwined.

What do I do? Do I try to fix this? Do I let it go? Could I let it go?

Are you a crutch? Is this just a shameless cry for sympathy and attention?

I need some sort of resolution. What resolution do I expect? It has been ten years. Ten years and I can't forgive myself, or you. I can't let it go and I can't make it right.

So where does this leave us?

To my Father

Do you ever wonder? Does your mind ever drift towards mine in the darkness of the night? Do you ever think about what it would've been like to watch us grow up? To watch us change and mature, take wing like silken butterflies on a summer breeze?

Or do you just lie on your bed in your cell, listening to your cellmate masturbate and wonder how you ended up where you are now?

Does it suck knowing that you have two children all grown up somewhere, you don't even know where? Do you ever wish that you were here, or do you just pretend that we don't exist? Believe it or not, we do exist.

Do you still care? Did you even care to begin with?

I wonder. My mind often drifts toward wherever yours may reside, drifting over endless seas of darkness and time. I try not to think about what it would've been like to have a father to be there for me. And now, we are adults, unlike those butterflies because we have no wings with which to fly. I can't stand to think about you some days, it's like watching a bloody sunrise and wishing the dead back to life.

It sucks knowing that you never got to watch us grow up, that you don't even know where we are right now. It sucks because we don't know where you are either. I wish you were here, I can't deny your existence no matter how hard I try.

I still care. I have always cared. I miss You.